


annihilation,  probably.

by whilst



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Implied Incest, Necrophilic Undertones, Possession, Ritualistic Cannibalism, Situationally Inappropriate Levity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whilst/pseuds/whilst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why do bones have to be so delicious and enticing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	annihilation,  probably.

She knows his body, corded muscle, minimalist angles, thin bird bones healed over from multiple fractures. He's tough on the outside in the literal sense. It's not so different from hers.

His eyes are still half-open, shades are propped on his forehead. They're misted over, but literature would have you believe the eyes of the dead lose their spark. Her brother's eyes have retained their luster, as rich and red in life as in death. She runs her fingertip across their surface and he doesn't flinch. There's a fitting way to do this. 

You enter through the soft places.

She plucks out one, then the other, and pops them into her mouth, working them over with her tongue while her fingers root around the empty sockets, scraping at muscle. There's quite a bit of muscle, but she'll work that over later, when she wants to put in the effort of chewing. Her needles would work better here, but her hands, at least, are warm and he knew them. He's already cold to the touch. When she's satisfied that she's managed to claim what viscous fluid she can get at with her fingers alone, she wipes her chin with the back of her hand, spits two clear lenses into her waiting palm, and pockets them.

The blood in his mouth is drying, thick and sticky even mixed with what remains of the saliva under his gums, and Rose grimaces against the smell and gummy texture even as she immerses herself in the taste. His tongue was sharp in idiom only; it would be relatively soft for a muscle if it wasn't seized as all the others, increasingly rigid and unwieldy. She bites off as much as she can reach comfortably without damaging his face, nose smudging his shades, and only runs her fingers through his hair afterwards in a uselessly soothing gesture neither of them has much use for. This goes in her pocket too. It won't keep, but as she understands it, trophy binges are traditional.

A crow would pick away at his cheeks now, she thinks, but she twists the lines of narrative out of the air and remakes the ritual. He wouldn't be her brother with a 32 toothed grin, and she is here for Dave more than for his teeth. (Why do bones have to be so delicious and enticing?) It does interest her to note that his tonsils had been removed surgically and that his vocal cords are shredded to slag. Not that either of these are suitable. She bargains, instead, for his hands, reasoning his fingers are an extension of his tongue, of his mind, and she doesn't wait for permission before snapping one off with a quiet, wet pop of gristle and skin.

Tendons are a problem. Her fingers are pruney and aching by the time she's finished disassembling most of his sword hand and she despairs at beginning on the other. Let alone the rest of his carcass. His wounds leak sluggishly or not at all. He really is more carcass than friend by now, old blood heeding the call of gravity and pooling beneath his skin so that his back is one massive bruise, slightly swollen to the touch. With the passing time, she feels more and more as though his body itself is her enemy, but she is committed. 

With a final lick of the stump, she swallows back her reluctance (and the coppery ooze of leaking puss) and starts in on his other hand. At least she has a better idea of how to go about this one, has learned the easiest way to start. Five more fingernails are added to her inventory. 

She is through with both hands and has begun on the complex mechanisms of his sprained and swollen wrists when someone begins to pester her. No, wait, it's this walkie-talkie doohickey. It seems her boss is on the line. 

He says, what's taking so long, girlie? 

She says, giks tiye fiss'nb gieawam rgua ua iye agiq, x'b tiy un'fubw siubf rgua qurg ' gyn'b agwkk?

That goes over well. He curses a bit and then puts her on hold.

There's a sliver of muscle caught between her molars, but though she works at it with her tongue, she can't pick it free. For this, at least, she is permitted some tool, and a set of needles – not the Thorns – are cumbersome but effective. There's not much she can do for the scrapes on her gums. Jack gets back on the line.

**Rose Lalonde received a package!**

Bad wolf could use some teeth. Rose flicks flecks of slime off her skirt. She says, tiy jbiq qikcwa arukk sib;r w'r rgw qgikw vistm eufgr?

He says, shut up.

Ainw rwbr'xkwa qiyks g'cw vwwb buxw. Qw;ew yaws ri rgiaw.

Seriously? Don't try and sell him that pile of baloney. She said she was going to handle it so she had damn well better be handling it. Ring him up when she's done.

Runw ua sw's jusa, she agrees and hangs up.

Now that she's spoken to someone alive, the place feels emptier, unpleasantly hollowed out. Staged for a soliloquy. Their multitudinous attention still slurps at her like she's a gaping socket in the shape of a girl and their consideration is a questing tongue of unreasonable and unlikely proportions – but she feels every bit as alone as she would appear to any near-sighted observers with no instincts for self-preservation. Of which there are none.

It just figures the presence of Dave Strider would be too impatient to linger through a single phone call, especially once she'd gotten through most of the important bits. Really, she should have expected as much.

She shrugs to herself. 

**Rose Lalonde equipped Prototype-Prototype (1/4)!**

The time for delicacy is over. The light is green and blinding. She is a jackal-headed god and an offering is an offering, even if he skipped out partway through like a total chump. Even if there's a good chance he was never actually offering. It hardly matters now.

She peels his ears from his skull. She pries his teeth from his jaw. She proceeds to gobble him all up. And then she rings up Jack.

**Author's Note:**

> _I've pressed so  
>        far away from  
>       my desire that_
> 
> _if you asked  
>        me what I  
>       want I would,_
> 
> _accepting the harmonious  
>        completion of the   
>       drift, say annihilation,_
> 
> _probably._
> 
>                       [Continuity](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19165), A. R. Ammons


End file.
